


Joined | Apart

by Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Top John, consensual soul bonds, mentions of canon character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/pseuds/Zoi%20no%20miko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul bonds are a choice that John Reese doesn't believe in.  Harold feels the benefits entirely outweigh the risks, and hopes that Reese will never need to know about his choices... or his matching soul mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Mr. Reese?" Mr. Reese!"

All he could hear through the com was static. The signal from their Number's cell phone was dead. Harold's heart, racing, skipped a beat with a shudder of fear.

Finally he heard John give a shuddering breath, and the anguish in his voice sliced far deeper than the pain. "We lost her, Finch."

Harold forced himself to swallow down the overwhelming rush of sorrow, of failure. Still, he could hear his voice shake. "You did all you could, Mr. Reese. Please come back to the library, now. I'll call in a tip to the NYPD's harbor unit."

For a long moment there was silence, and the tiny read blip that meant John's cell phone on the map stayed frozen, red pulsing silently. Then it started to move back across the George Washington Bridge towards his car and home.

The debrief wasn't compulsory. Especially not on a night like tonight, after nearly forty-eight hours of work without rest, trying desperately to save the life of a woman who didn't want to be saved. Certainly there were times when one or both of them were so drained that even dealing with each other was too much. He never denied John his need to hermit away and quietly lick his wounds any more than John would ever deny him.

But nights like tonight... it was a rare thing, that the greatest threat to a numbers life was the number themselves. And this night, this number had cut Harold far deeper than he could ever let John know.

While he waited for John to return, he began quietly striking the case from the command center, taking down the photos and documents from the pane of glass one by one. Their number first, Ivana Winters. A second photo of the beautiful young brunette on the arm of her husband, telecommunications mogul Don Winters, who'd been killed in a home invasion two weeks ago. The situation had seemed simple enough, at first glance. She'd been the only witness in the case against the former brother-in-law, who'd obviously wanted to bury her before she could testify at his fast-approaching trial.

They'd immediately looked to the ex-wife, formerly an executive in her ex-husband's multi-billion dollar company. An easy prediction, with his new wife so much younger. Then, as Harold had pulled the divorce records, he'd found information that had made his blood run cold.

"Mr. Reese, this may be a more serious vendetta than we've thought. I've gained access to the divorce records, and it seems that Ivana and her new husband were Registered."

"Jesus. They were soul mates?"

"So it seems. The divorce settlement seemed quite fair, of course... but the former Mrs. Winters may be far more emotionally invested in this than we thought. In all appearances her marriage was golden before the soul mate showed up. And if Ivana's lost her soul mate it would explain why the trial's been pushed ahead so aggressively. She's Fading, Mr. Reese."

"Maybe her number came up to tell us to save her from herself, then." The bitterness in John's words surprised him, and Harold tried to pick his words carefully.

"The Machine is rarely able to clearly identify the intention for suicide. There's too many variables, too many interpretations. But I suppose this is a case that could be seen easily enough. Will that be a problem, Mr. Reese?"

"Don't worry, Finch. I've seen more than my share of Fading war widows."

Of course. As a Sergeant in the Special Forces, surely John would have been present to deliver the news of fallen soldiers. How many of the fallen had left a soulmate behind? How many of those might have taken their own lives before John had even arrived, driven mad with grief after feeling their mate die through the bond? He kept his voice soft. "I'd imagine that was very difficult for you."

John's snort sounded distinctly angry. "Hollow eyed women and men hanging onto life only for the sake of their children? It's a damn waste, is what it is. I can't imagine why anyone in their sane mind would choose to accept a soul bond when it means so much danger for so little gain."

Harold found himself arguing before he could think the better of it. "But surely some would find that one of the most beneficial scenarios for accepting your soulmate? Being able to lend them your strength and awareness. Helping them recover from injury. Two hearts shared regardless of the distance between them. You don't agree?"

"Didn't help the ones I saw die." There was nothing but bitterness in John's voice. "Sorry to dissuade any romantic notions you might have."

Romantic notions. Without answering, Harold lifted a hand to his own chest, slipping his fingers past the silk tie and under his vest. He imagined that he could feel the connection more strongly like this, with only a few layers of fine cotton between his fingers and the mark on his chest, invisible to any lense or imaging device except the human eye. The intricate black lines etched above his heart in the shape of a knight's shield, bearing the coat of arms belonging only to him and his soulmate - a proud gryphon on its hind legs.

He'd seen its match only once. One week before Nathan had died. His last week with Grace, living in her beautiful little house by the park. The first time they'd been intimate: a bright, shining memory of a candlelit dinner and wine, of soft kisses, of the way she laughed, soft and delighted and joyful, as he'd drawn her down into bed with him. He'd kept his undershirt on, and she had as well - par the course for new lovers. There'd been no need to mar the beauty of their first night together with complicated revelations and discussions about a phenomena that he'd always thought of as merely an irrelevant evolutionary relic.

He couldn't say what had made him lift the back neckline of her undershirt as she slept in his arms. Perhaps the same fate that had drawn them together. Perhaps a need to test how accurate the Machine had been, in playing matchmaker between them. Whatever the reason, there was no mistaking the match: the dark lines of the signet ring that adorned Grace's back shoulder were an exact replica of the gryphon over his heart.

For a moment he'd hesitated. He'd never put stock in soul marks, never thought to look for his match or to claim the benefits that a fully recognized soul mark gave. But seeing Grace's mark left him without doubt. _"I accept you as my mate, my soul to yours,"_ he'd murmured, and felt the world change around him as he'd opened himself to her completely. He could feel her life, her happy contentment even in sleep. Just like he'd feel her joy and sadness, her every emotion for the rest of his life. If she was hurt, he'd feel her pain, and lend her his strength to help her heal. She was his queen, and he would protect her with everything that he was.

Revealing his own mark to her could come later, he'd justified. There was no need to rush the bond, to ask her to return his acceptance. Not when so many other things were still new between them.

Then he'd woken up after the bomb. To Nathan's death, to the chilling realization that his own life had almost been lost. That if he'd told Grace, allowed to accept their bond, his death would have completely destroyed her. Protecting Grace meant that he could never allow her to give to him what he'd given her. The only way to truly protect her as his soul had promised was to make himself disappear from her life forever.

But even so far away from her, he could always feel an echo of her through his bond when he concentrated on it. He did so, as he talked with John, and found solace in the quiet thrum of Grace's contentment. Harold smiled, his fingers stroking the unseen lines of his mark. 

"I suppose then, Mr. Reese, we will need to disagree on this point."

Regardless of John's apparent disapproval of the idea of soul marks, he'd treated their Fading number with the same care as he always did. Even when they'd found that she'd taken out a hit on her beloved's murderers herself. Harold had felt a soft rush of pride as he'd listed to John reason with her, convince her to do things the right way. To let him help her find enough evidence to put both the ex-wife and her brother away forever. They'd thought the assignment a success.

Then, as he'd been about to leave the library late that evening, Ivana Winters' number had come up again. With her business complete and the evidence against her husband's killers iron clad, the grieving widow had quietly lost herself in the swirling darkness of the Hudson River.

Harold had just finished tucking away her folder when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs, slow and heavy. When he reached the top of the stairs he stopped, defeated, his gaze hollow.

Harold moved towards him slowly, heart aching far more than his battered body. "You did all you could," he said again softly.

He watched John's eyes close briefly, a soft, bitter laugh shaking his form. "It wasn't enough."

"Mr. Reese, please...." he let a hand rest on John's arm, pleading. "This isn't your fault. Nothing could have changed her mind. That's why we call them 'Fading'. No one can survive that kind of loss!"

"Because no one should have to experience it in the first place!" Suddenly, anger seemed to fill every empty part in him. "These fucking marks that people die for - and for what? Just to feel like you're in some kind of fairy tale? How could he let her accept the bond if he truly loved her? How could he cut her life short like that?"

This was more than just the despair of having lost Mrs. Winters, Harold realized quickly. This anger was personal, and he knew that only one thing held sway over John to that degree. 

Had he been bonded to Jessica? 

They hadn't been Registered. But from the way John had been when Harold had found him... had he been Fading away without her? Was he still fading, even now?

But if John had been bonded with Jessica, how on earth could he have left her to marry another man? How could she have possibly loved anyone but him? Or perhaps... perhaps she hadn't known. 

Perhaps he and John were more alike than he ever could have known.

Whatever the reason, the pain in John's gray eyes was raw, heartbreaking. I'm so sorry, Harold wanted to say. But that sympathy wasn't what he needed. So instead he silently stepped into him, sliding his arms up around John's neck and pressing his face to his hair. He felt John tense, frozen for a long moment. Then his shoulders sagged, and Harold felt his hands move to rest on the small of his back, warm and strong.

He closed his eyes, finally letting himself speak, though not more than a murmur. "Please, let's not try to bear this alone. Please...."

John's fingers tightened on his back. For a long moment he was silent, though he turned his face towards his, breath a warm shudder against Harold's hair. "I don't know how gentle I can be right now."

"Just be with me," Harold murmured in response, and let his lips brush against his jaw ever so slightly. "Please, John."

He heard John's breath catch. Then there was nothing but the desperation of his kisses, hot and trembling, his skin stubble-rough against Harold's, one hand tangling in the back of his hair to hold him in place. John kisses felt like he'd lose him if he let go, like Harold was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. Or perhaps those were Harold's own, desperate feelings. He held to John like an anchor - his support, his protection, his partner in this terrible world that they did battle with again and again. The rope that kept him from falling into the pits of despair on nights like tonight. From being buried under the weight of their failures, the loneliness of spending his entire life in hiding. Living a lie.

The weight of doing what needed to be done when no one else could.

The small room just below the library was never meant to be lived in, but it had served their purpose several times before and would do so again. He didn't hit the lights - the streetlight through the frosted glass was more than enough to make it to the narrow bed set against the wall. 

Despite John's concerns, they'd done this enough times that he knew how to be careful, how to be just rough enough to fulfil Harold's needs without overtaxing his battered body. He'd tucked his glasses safely on box that served as a nightstand before pulling him down into bed, with far more care than his suit, which was somewhere on the floor with John's. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but losing himself to John's kisses and the weight of his body pressing him down into the bed.

Arousal made the sorrow of the evening burn white hot, welling up inside him, uncontainable. Harold gave a soft sob against John's mouth even as he pushed a hand into his boxer-briefs, even as he took him in hand. The noise the caress pulled from John's lips was broken, and he pressed his mouth to Harold's neck to muffle another, hips jerking helplessly up into his touch.

"I know." Harold closed his eyes against the flood of emotion, bit his lip on a groan as John's fingers curled around his cock. His calloused fingers were still chilled from being outside, stroking, squeezing gently, bringing him to full hardness. It was a gentleness he didn't need tonight. He tightened his grip on John's dick, free hand digging into the muscles of his back, feeling them tense and surge under the thin cotton of his undershirt. He twisted to catch his mouth again. "John, please...."

John answered in another broken, needy noise, in bruising his lips against Harold's teeth, bucking up against his palm. "I'm sorry." The words were low and desperate, a helpless admission even as he worked his cock. "I'm sorry, Harold...."

"I'm sorry we failed her." Harold echoed, knowing that John felt the loss as deeply as he did. That each failure, each death drove the knife deeper into his heart.

"I'm sorry I failed you." John's voice broke on the words, and Harold moaned, kissing him again and again.

"Never," he murmured, trying to put every ounce of certainty into his voice, to kiss him into believing it. "Never, John. Never me. I promise. I promise...."

Neither of them could ever last long like this, but that was part of it. Forcing the overwhelming sorrow to come to a head, linked to their desperate build of pleasure. A release, a catharsis that nothing else could ever provide. John's hips stuttered into his touch, fingers jerking Harold firm and quick and almost rough, finally exactly what he needed. For a few moments all that existed was an agony of pleasure, the air between them shared through ragged, broken gasps against each other's lips. Then John's chest heaved as he gasped his name, spending himself in his fingers, and Harold let go, sobbing against John's lips as he joined him, the physical ecstasy and the pleasure of being with John burning away enough of the hurt to keep going.

It wasn't at all like being with Grace. But that part of him died with Harold Martin. This was what he had now, what he needed. He let John arrange them on the narrow bed, nestling Harold against his side until he could use him like a giant body pillow, providing a surprisingly sufficient amount of support for his back. It wouldn't matter anyway. He could ignore any discomfort, like he ignored the scratchiness of the army blanket John pulled over them, or the fact that they were sweaty and sticky and would likely wake up stuck together. It was worth it, to be able to cuddle into the strength of John's embrace, finally warm. Finally safe.

"I'm sorry to put you through this," he murmured. Then, "I couldn't do this without you."

He felt John's arms tighten around him, strong and secure, felt him move to press a kiss to his hair. "Just hard to remember success on a night like tonight."

You are my greatest, Harold wanted to say, even though he was still quite certain that this life would eventually get them killed. "I know. Thank you for staying with me."

"Any time," John murmured, and despite his words he finally sounded more at ease. Or at least relaxed enough to sleep. "Anything you ask, Harold."

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty soulmate AUs! ＼(^∇^＼) Angsty post-mission hand jobs! (ノ^o^)ノ Reese hugs!! ヾ（*⌒ヮ⌒*）ゞ
> 
> Let me know what you think while I work on the next chapter? :D


	2. Chapter 2

Time moved on after their failed attempts to help Ivana Winters, as it always did. More numbers. More people to help. John didn't bring her up again, or the tumultuous subject of soulmates and soul bonds. If he had indeed shared a mark with Jessica, Harold had to be content with accepting that he'd likely never know the truth of the extent. Still, he tucked away the idea with the rest of John's history as one more thing to be cognizant of in all his dealings.

It certainly didn't stop him from becoming more and more dependant on John, day by day. It was something the logical part of himself screamed against: stay private, stay safe. Don't form attachments, don't give yourself any more weaknesses. Don't open yourself up to the devastation of his inevitable loss.

Too easily he remembered Mr. Dillinger, who was a pale shadow compared to the man who had replaced him. John, with his kind gray eyes that seemed to see and intrinsically understand Harold's sorrow without the need to articulate anything between them. Who paid attention, who brought him pastries to try and make sure he ate, who took note of the only kind of tea he drank and the very specific way he liked things. Who, even in his attempts to pry into Harold's private life still approached it with a measure of respect.

John, who had understood his need for their tender intimacy even before Harold had realized it himself.

Even with Dillenger's betrayal, Harold still mourned. The vivid memory of burying him - the night air crisply cold, the pain in his back only bearable because the crushing devastation of his loss was so much stronger - still haunted his dreams. Except now when he looked down into the shallow grave he saw John's handsome features and salt and pepper hair, death's pallor on his skin, dulling those beautiful eyes. He'd wake in tears, and John, on the rare occasions they were together, would quietly pull him closer and stroke his back gently until he fell asleep again.

It was becoming harder and harder to rationalize away his feelings. To deny that the fear of losing John was nearly crippling. It was a fear that was unhealthy, that ran the risk of clouding his common sense and compromising his decisions when John was in the field. And that was something he absolutely could not afford.

But all those admonitions couldn't prevent his heart from stopping from the terrible discover that _Carter had sold John out to the CIA._

The trip from the library to his car was a blur of adrenaline, pulse thundering in his ears has he dialed John again and again, praying that he wasn't too late. He couldn't be too late, he had to - 

"Harold?" He could hear the pain and fatigue in John's voice, gasping Harold's given name in a way that he never did when they were on a case. 

" _John_." Suddenly all of his fear was rushing out in words, in begging John not to give up, over and over. "It's not over, John. I'm close. Just get to the ground floor."

"No. You stay away.... Don't risk it."

Don't risk it? How could he not? Harold blew past a red light amidst the blaring of horns. He'd brought John into this. Out of his safe little hidey hole of _'Presumed Dead'_ , back into the influence of the people who'd tried to have him killed in the first place. Bad enough that he asked John to risk his life day in and day out. But to leave him now, to _lose_ him...

Out of the question.

Harold's hands gripped the wheel so tightly that they shook as he drove into the parking lot. Ahead of him, a door opened to John's staggering form. Harold's heart skittered painfully past a beat. But he was still on his feet, still alive, it wasn't too late - 

He darted from the car to catch John in his arms, supporting his weight, keeping him upright and pulling him back towards the car door. Trying not to think about the blood on his white shirt spreading from the gunshot wound on his abdomen, the blood on his hands, too much blood - 

"Hold it!"

Carter, at the door. Gun trained on them. Harold pushed down a surge of anger, trying to keep his head clear. She couldn't have known that she was helping an execution squad. Her eyes moved to Harold in sudden recognition. "You!" He saw her determination waver... then turn to dismay. Guilt. She dropped her gun. "Get him out of here. Come on." Bundling Reese into the backseat of the car. "Go!"

Harold floored it, breaking through the toll gate. How much time did they have? He'd mentally gone through his list of resources on the drive over, weighing skill against distance and availability. Cost wasn't an issue, not when something more precious than life itself hung in the balance. Dr. Tillman was too far. The morgue was the obvious choice. Dr. Farooq Madan. If John - once John was well, Harold forced himself to correct - he would appreciate that he'd helped a good man at the same time.

He rushed John down the hall, dumped the emergency fund onto the table next to him. Tried to keep his voice calm and authoritative as he stated the facts; Madan would respond better to that than the blind panic he felt. "Stitch him up, no questions asked. Then you can be a doctor again."

Dr. Madan, to his credit, barely hesitated. Then he was at John's side, pulling down the rails of the gurney, moving him onto the morgue table and ripping open his shirt and undershirt. "Shot to the thigh looks to have missed all major arteries. He's lucky there. The abdomen - not so much." He turned to grab Harold's arm, yanking him to John's side and pushing his hand against the entry wound. "Put pressure on that while I get what I need. He'll need a transfusion. I can't provide that."

"Just stitch him up. I can take care of the rest." He'd put in a call to Dr Tillman next, Harold forced himself to think, to go through the logical steps of planning for John's care and recuperation. Anything to keep his mind off the waxiness of John's skin, the slippery hot blood under his hands, the shallow breathing....

Then he glanced down to John's chest and froze.

The black lines of his mark stood out in high contrast next to the paleness of his skin. He could only see a portion: two swords crossed behind a coat of arms. But on the coat of arms... two taloned forearms and a foot....

Shaking, he lifted a hand to push back the fabric and froze at what he saw.

The unmistakable lines of the same gryphon on his own chest.

He felt his heart give an unmistakable, painful twist of yearning even as his mind rejected the notion. Quickly he pulled the fabric of John's shirt back into place over the mark and pressed his hand down with the other, keeping pressure on the gunshot wound. It had to be a coincidence. Surely there were only so many unique designs and symbols that could make up a mark, surely this was a simple matter of math and statistics and repetition - 

"All right. Step aside, please."

Dr. Madan spoke as he worked. The bullet had gone straight through. A miraculous miss of his the liver. Telling him that he could suture the damage to his large and small intestine and flush the cavity, but the chance of infection was high. He'd need serious aftercare, I.V. feeding, antibiotics, and even then, chances of recovery - 

Part of Harold's brain carefully recorded and catalogued his words. But he couldn't think logically, couldn't think anything except that John could die, that John was dying, and he....

 _He wouldn't want this,_ Harold thought as he cupped John's face with trembling hands. Because accepting this mark meant tying his life irrevocably to John's, meant that every time John went into the field he would be risking both their lives. It was a risk that John would clearly never allow. But he'd hidden his mark from Grace. How hard could it be to hide it again? If doing this could give John the strength he needed to survive....

The alternative wasn't an option.

Harold closed his eyes and stilled his thoughts, focusing on the feel of John's skin under his fingertips. On what he felt for the other man, which he knew now, for certain, was love. 

_I accept you as my mate, my soul to yours._

This time it was as different as could be from Grace. Instead of warmth, he was overcome by coldness, by a pain in his abdomen so intense that he nearly doubled over. He fought to catch his breath, the world spinning around him.

"If you're going to pass out, sit down." Dr. Madan's voice cut through the fog, enough for him to focus.

Cold. "He's freezing. He's going into shock. I need a blanket, I need - "

"There's a fire marshal's kit in the hall." 

Wishing he'd kept his suit jacket on under the stolen lab coat, he found the fire blanket, bundling it over John's upper body while trying not to disturb Madan's work. He used the sheet from the gurney, the pillows, every bit of insulation he could see. Then he pulled over a stool and sat next to him, taking John's hand in both of his, rubbing it between them to warm himself as much as John. And he focused, pouring every bit of love he felt for John towards the trembling mass of pain that was all he could feel through their new-formed bond until that was all that existed.

_Don't leave me. Please, John. Please don't leave me._

"Do you have that aftercare lined up?" Dr. Madan's voice finally roused him once more, and Harold looked up to find him suturing together John's skin with neat stitches. "The leg won't take long."

"Of course." Taking out his phone, he dialed with blood stained fingers. "Megan. This is John's friend. I'm afraid I need to call in a favor."

~~~

Focusing on John's recovery, thankfully, gave him something to think about beyond the bond. There was no way to ignore it, of course. Not with the constant _feel_ of John: the warm reassurance of his life force growing stronger every day, overlaid with gratefulness to Harold, then a growing irritability at the days of bedrest. But none of that could hold a finger to the way John felt when he looked at him: the bright, reverent, overwhelmingly adoring emotion that flowed into him.

Love.

He'd tried not to consider it, before. He'd had thoughts, though. John was far too kind, too tender with him; it had been impossible for him not to imagine the possibility, even for a moment or two. Now, the revelation was as overwhelming as the feeling itself. _John loved him._

For the first time since they'd met, he found himself entirely unsure as to how to interact with John. So he didn't, minimizing his time with him as much as possible when care was not required, trying to ignore John's questioning looks and the quiet pang of hurt he could feel from the other man every time he left the room.

Finally he caught Harold's arm, one afternoon as he'd finished changing his I.V. "Finch...."

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

The rush of emotion he felt as John looked up at him was momentarily blinding. Hurt. Guilt. Resolution. Sadness and regret. John's expression was perfectly calm in a way that Harold had long realized was an expertly constructed mask. Finally he spoke. "I realize that I've become a liability. I can't allow myself to jeopardize you. If you need to terminate our arrangement - "

Harold's heart clenched painfully even before his mind could examine the logic. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. The fact that you had to come rescue me and risk exposing yourself - "

"I don't want anyone here but you." The words left his lips in a rush - too sudden, too emotional. But the surge of relief he felt from John soothed him, and when John released his grip on his wrist, Harold let himself grasp his hand.

For a long moment John just looked up at him, watching him with one of his rare, small smiles. The happiness he could feel behind it was reassuring. "Thought you'd been avoiding me."

Harold swallowed, dropping his eyes in a rush of self-consciousness. "You'll have to forgive me. With what happened, I... your injuries.... I found myself quite... unsettled."

"I'm sorry to have worried you," John replied softly, squeezing his hand. "I'll be fine. You saw to that."

In more ways than you can ever know, Harold thought, biting back the secret.

When he didn't respond, John squeezed his hand again. "Thank you. For coming for me. For saving me."

The feeling of love and gratitude was overwhelming, and Harold's eyes burned, throat clenching on his own emotions. I love you, he wanted to say. Instead he cradled John's hand in both of his, then lifted it, pressing a kiss to the backs of his fingers. "We're in this together, John. We have to take care of each other."

~~~

He stopped ignoring the ringing payphones once John was back on solid food. Still not ideal for taking on a mission, but they really had no choice. Silently he listened and noted down the code for their next assignment.

Then, before hanging up, he turned from the payphone. It only took him a moment to locate a traffic camera monitoring the booth.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully," he said over the repeating message of their assignment. "This is an update to the contingency plan. You are to deliver your data to Mr. Reese in the event that I cannot be reached. As well, the instructions I gave to you regarding Grace now also apply to Mr. Reese. His safety must be maintained. Do you understand?"

For a moment there was only silence, and Harold held his breath. With his limited connection through the back door, there was no telling - 

_Understood_ , said a voice in his ear, and Harold let himself breathe again.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inevitably, John meets Grace. It's far from what Harold expects.

Harold told himself that he spent time in Washington Square Park because it was a convenient place of contact for the machine. Lots of traffic. A good place to be anonymous.

Truthfully, it was the only place in the city in which he could steal a moment of normalcy. With Grace nearby, the _feel_ of her was almost as strong as if they were physically together. Even with his app set to keep him out of visible distance from her, to avoid any chance that she might somehow spot him, being able to feel her was enough. Grace's quiet focus and creativity as she worked, her sweet optimism. Her gentle happiness despite the occasional moments of longing and nostalgia.

He'd had to stay away from her for over a year, when he'd first faked his death to keep her safe. Her grief was too strong to bear on top of his own loss and regret. The guilt he felt, for making her feel that way. But now...

Now Grace was a moment of calm in their terrible world. A moment of rejuvenation. A reminder of why they did everything they did.

The moment she and John laid eyes on each other, he knew.

He'd been sitting down in the square, thankfully, because suddenly the feedback from both of them was so overwhelming that he could hardly focus on anything else. The determined curiosity he'd been feeling from John all morning had grown somehow softer, more kind. Almost reverent. Grace - his sweet, gentle Grace - had felt no annoyance at his intrusion, her reaction only kind and helpful. Then he'd felt a rush of nostalgic happiness, aching and bittersweet, that had brought tears to his eyes. Certainly John must have asked her about him. The discovery that Grace could still think of him with such warmth, that their time together had not been such a loss after all....

John's reaction was almost as overwhelming. The most vibrant, sorrowful sympathy and regret washed over him. Pure empathy without a hint of jealousy. Harold had always thought the world of both of them, of course, but it was a striking reminder of how fortunate he was to have had not one, but two such amazing people in his life. Even if he had to hide so much from them.

Then the moment passed, and Harold could breathe again.

John, not surprisingly, found him. There was no need to keep the truth from him at that point. Most of it, in any case. And as he spoke he could feel John's sympathy turn to soft, stoic approval, a silent support and validation for his choice to leave Grace that Harold hadn't realized he'd needed until that moment.

He turned into John, let a hand rest on his forearm. "I know this is a lot to ask. But it's extremely important that she remains protected. She must remain secret and unharmed at any cost. If something were to happen to her...."

John's eyes searched his for a moment, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them. Then he gave a single nod of understanding, and Harold felt the familiar pain of his memories of Jessica's loss resurfacing. "... I'm sorry."

I understand, he wanted to say, though he still couldn't know if they were bonded and he couldn't imagine surviving Grace's death, regardless of the bond. Instead he forced a smile, then turned away, hoping words would be enough of a comfort. "I was lucky. I got four years of happiness. Some people only get four days."

~~~

He'd become used to John's moments of melancholy, in the months since he'd accepted their bond. There were times when he could lift it, but he didn't delude himself into thinking that his love could be a magical cure for all of the damage the world had inflicted upon John, any more than John could be that for him. And John's melancholy was sometimes even a comfort, knowing so perfectly that he wasn't alone in the way that he felt.

The day John met Grace, though, the feeling lingered, deepening into sadness, until Harold began to worry that he'd made the wrong decision in trying to express sympathy for Jessica.

Finally he picked up a bottle of wine and made his way to the new apartment. There was a long wait, after he knocked, a feeling of brief indecision. Then the door opened.

He held up the bottle of wine like a peace offering. "I thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."

John stepped back, holding the door for him. Taking the wine. "I'm not sure if I'm going to be very good company tonight."

And that's why I'm here. Harold smiled, let his hand rest briefly on his forearm. "Have a drink with me?"

He didn't ask about the apartment, though he couldn't help but think that it was as inviting at night time as it was filled with daytime sunlight. The scattered lamps and accent lighting his designer had arranged created inviting pools of warmth amidst comfortable dimness throughout the space. More importantly, John seemed comfortable in the space. He felt safe. 

He watched John take down a pair of glasses and pour. The California Zinfandel wasn't as nice a wine as he would have liked, but their situation wasn't ideal for building an extensive wine cellar. Still, it was still nice enough to sip, to hopefully soothe raw nerves..

"I'm sorry I upset you earlier," he said, and watched a corner of John's mouth twitch up into a small, wry smile.

"It's not you. Just old memories dredged up." He regarded Harold quietly for a long moment, the wine glass seemingly forgotten in his hand. Then he turned his gaze towards the large bank of windows and the lights of the city outside. "Sometimes it's hard not to wonder... regardless of how certain you are in the moment... if you've just let fear guide you to the wrong decision. If everything might be different...."

"None of us can know the future, John."

"But if I hadn't left her...." He stopped, closing his eyes, eyebrows knit together.

The regret John felt was briefly overpowering. Harold took a sip of the wine to try and anchor himself. "I think," he said slowly, "that whatever decisions you've made... regardless of their consequences, they've been made in love. Haven't they, John?"

John's eyes turned back to him. "Is that how you feel about Grace? Despite the danger it puts you in now?"

Always. Harold wet his lips, looking down at his glass. "Things seemed simpler then, but only because I wanted them so badly to be. I was too optimistic, too egotistical to let myself understand the danger of what I'd created. But my decision to... every decision I made in regards to Grace was made in love."

John nodded slowly, sipping the wine. "Maybe someday...." he started, and Harold could feel a kind of brittle sadness and yearning when he'd expected jealousy. Jessica? He stepped closer, letting his free hand rest on John's bicep.

"John... that part of my life is over."

"I could protect you both, you know."

The determination he felt made Harold smile, even as he shook his head. "I know. But I won't risk one love to save another."

There was a moment of surprise, grey eyes flicking to his, and then John's emotions shifted into self-consciousness. Inadequacy. Love. "You deserve so much more than this."

It was hardest to block out John's emotions in those kind of moments. Harold forced himself to swallow around the lump in his throat, then stepped into him, reaching up silently to urge John's mouth into a soft, lingering kiss.

"This is where I want to be, John," he managed to say, wishing again that he dared say more. Wishing that he could somehow let John know, let him _feel_ without consequence. But apparently it was enough, because John set his glass down, cupping Harold's face gently, drawing him into a kiss bright with sudden adoration and yearning.

John's attraction was still surprising to Harold at times. Moreso now that he could feel it, his own heart skipping a beat, cock stirring at the gentle touch of John's desire. In the beginning he'd tried to tell himself that this arrangement was only about convenience, about the kind of comfort that no-one else could give them in this life that they'd chosen. It was easier than trying to convince himself that someone like John might genuinely find him attractive. 

Knowing now - as John's hands smoothed down his back to cup his ass, as he turned to press him back against the countertop - that the want he could feel in his kisses was completely unfeigned, was still as astonishing and arousing as the first time he'd felt it.

He set aside his glass blindly, reaching up to run his fingers through John's beautifully thick hair, lips parting to his with a soft moan. John took the invitation, kisses warm and wine-sweet and quickly driving every thought from his mind but the pleasure of his touch and the desire for more. John's lips left his to nuzzle his jaw, his voice soft and low, and the turmoil of emotion he'd been feeling settled into warm determination and sweet adoration. "I'll protect you no matter what the cost."

The pang of longing he felt was hard to push away. To lift the secret between them and give John the choice of cementing their bond completely. To be able to truly tell him how much that meant to him. But there was too much at stake.

Instead he arched up to kiss him again, rubbing his thumb against the softness at the back of his neck. "Would you mind terribly if I stayed here with you tonight?"

He felt a gentle wave of happiness as John smiled, kissing him again. "I thought you'd never ask."

The king-sized bed he'd placed in the apartment was a cloud of luxury compared to the little cot in the library. It already smelled very pleasantly like John, he found himself thinking as John pressed him back into the mattress, his mouth a warm brand of pleasure as he lavished kisses on Harold's throat.

Then John moved to nuzzle the neckline of his undershirt and paused, running his fingers over the soft cotton. His hand slid down to tease up underneath, gentle and questioning, accompanied with an emotional yearning for closeness that Harold ached to give in to. He caught John's hand, raising it to his lips, kissing his fingers. "Please forgive me this secret," he said softly, guilt deepening at the soft, sad smile John gave him in return.

"I know. You're a very private person."

"Only to protect you," he found himself answering before he could think on it, cupping his cheek, pressing a trembling kiss to his mouth. I've given you more of myself than I've ever given anyone, he wanted to say. Even more than Grace. More than Grace and Nathan combined. He heard his voice shake. "Please understand, John...."

John gave a soft, soothing moan, returning his kiss. He pressed closer, half covering Harold's body with his own. Caressing him gently until Harold could relax again. "Shh... it's okay. I know. I'm sorry to bring it up."

Harold shook his head, letting his fingers stroke over the strength in John's back. Letting the warm love he could feel reassure him. "I... was rather hoping you might make love to me, though."

"Yeah?" John lifted his head to look down on him with soft, adoring wonder. He kept his voice light, intentionally teasing. "I thought this apartment came rather well supplied."

John's reaction to the idea was more positive than he could have anticipated, and Harold couldn't help but smile. He'd been intimate with so few people in his life, and even fewer men... Nathan had been the only one who hadn't ever expressed an interest in intercourse as a path to possessing him. But Nathan had never, to his knowledge, loved him like this. John's feelings of awe and even stronger adoration at his suggestion made Harold want it even more.

He slid a hand down John's chest to cup his hardening cock, smiling at his lover's soft hiss of pleasure. "Well, I thought perhaps since we finally have a decent bed...."

"We?" The sudden, unexpected surge of desire and the hunger in John's kiss made him moan, arching closer, ignoring the soft ache in his low back as he wrapped one thigh over John's hips, drawing him closer. The weight of his body was exquisite, and Harold found himself achingly hard in no time, rocking up against him, gasping at the rush of pleasure as he pushed against the firm plane of John's stomach, his lover's cock pressed hard against his own. 

"God... John, please...."

"I'd really like that." The huskiness in John's voice made his heart skip. "If you're sure."

"Completely," Harold murmured, drawing him back into kisses. "But... it's been a while...."

John gave a low hum in understanding, hand rubbing his hip reassuringly. "I'll take care of you."

He ended up on his stomach, hips supported by pillows, sighing in pleasure as John lavished kisses over his neck, then to the small of his back. That he would be gentle with him was never a question; still, he couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude at how careful he was as he worked slick fingers up inside him. John's feelings of tender adoration and gratitude were even more pleasurable than the slow pump of his fingers, and before Harold knew it he found himself pressing back against the penetration breathlessly, aching for more sensation, biting his lip to keep from begging for it.

John's fingers slid away, the pushed back in with careful rocks, thicker. It didn't take him long to relax, not when his body remembered how good this could be. Not when John was so careful and thorough, fucking him slowly, feeling a surge of satisfaction at each soft, breathless moan he pulled from Harold's throat. Harold heard himself cry out as John's fingers crooked to press more firmly against his sweet spot, the shock of pleasure far stronger than any lingering discomfort. "God - John, please more...."

"More of this?" John's breath was hot against his skin as he nuzzled his back. Appreciative. "Kinda like the idea of making you come apart on my fingers...."

"Your hands are quite lovely, but - oh god....." The twist of John's fingers made it hard to find words, made it hard to breathe. "God. You. Please. Make love to me."

"Anything you want, Mr. Finch....." There was so much joy in his words that Harold felt like he could hardly breathe, laughing softly just to let some of it spill out of him. He didn't question it when John nudged his thighs together, straddling his hips as he rolled on a condom. Then he leaned over him, nuzzling his jaw, kissing the side of his mouth. He rocked his hips against him, the length of his cock sliding against his ass, the perfect amount of sensation without the pressure of his weight. "Like this, Harold?"

"God, yes. Please...." Then John was pressing inside him, stretching him open with the same careful, gradual rocks of his hips. The physical sensation left him momentarily unable to breathe, caught up in the aching pleasure of being filled, the slide of his skin against sensitive nerves, the delicious feeling of fullness as John finally buried himself to the hilt. This was somehow more overwhelming than he'd ever felt before, and as John drew back for another slow thrust he realized it was _him_ \- the combination of John's adoring love and wonder mixed with the pleasure he was feeling, reverberating back though the bond. He closed his eyes, drinking it in, feeling like every nerve in his body was buzzing with pleasure. "Oh god, John...."

John leaned down again, resting his weight on his elbows to mouth kisses to the back of his neck. "So good," he murmured, breath a hot caress on his skin. "So very good, god... let me know if it's too much...."

He couldn't have held back his moans if he'd wanted to. "Oh yes... it's not, oh god, don't stop....."

"God, Harold..." John's hips stuttered into him a little harder, another rush of pleasure making him cry out. The small corner of his mind still capable of conscious thought registered that John certainly knew how to fuck, rolling his hips into him in seemingly the perfect rhythm, angling to press up against his prostate with just enough firmness to make pleasure burst bright behind his eyes.

The feedback of John's pleasure was achingly good, building his own until all that existed was the combination of it all, white hot, his body aching for release as much as he needed more. The pinnacle of orgasm teased at the edges of his nerves, almost, almost enough, and it took a moment to realize that John was speaking, words gasped against his ear. "God, Harold please, I can't - "

With a surge of desire he let himself press back against him as much as he could, clenching down around John's cock and feeling his lover's passion crest in an helpless surge of pleasure. The feedback of John's orgasm bought him to one more overwhelming than he'd ever thought possible. He cried out breathlessly as it all crashed down around him, hot and bright and perfect, eclipsing his senses completely.

He let himself drift on that sea of happiness as John fussed over him. Despite the size of the bed he still ended up most comfortable using John as a body pillow, cuddling into him with a happy sigh. It was something his lover didn't seem to mind at all, radiating bliss as he kissed Harold's hair.

All the work that they did might just be worth it, Harold found himself thinking, if it meant moments like this.

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold keeps secrets far too well.

It should have been hard to keep such a monumental secret from John for so long. Especially considering how much of their lives had become entwined with the other. But the truth was, it wasn't.

He felt guilty at times, of course. John deserved the truth. But it was easy enough to rationalize that John wouldn't want this. Wouldn't want to know that putting himself at risk every day meant risking them both.

And, though he didn't want to admit it, even to himself... the thought of telling him frightened him. Being able to feel John, feel the warm adoring love and respect his mate felt for him... the thought of feeling the opposite, of losing that if John was unhappy about what he'd done... it was too much to risk.

So weeks turned into months with the secret still unshared, and the more time past the more Harold was able to rationalize keeping it that way and bury the guilt until telling John was hardly even a question at all.

~~~

In the aftermath of Joss's death, Harold felt quietly, guiltily relieved for John's unconscious. The grief that John had felt as her life had flickered out had been earth shattering, so overwhelming that Harold couldn't move, his heart clenching like it would stop with hers, each gasp of breath agony. The pain of John's wounds was nothing compared to his sorrow. Then the guilt rushed in, and everything else with it - anger at Simmons, white hot rage at what he'd done. Anger at himself for being unable to save her. And failure, so heavy that it was like the sorrow of every person they'd failed had all piled up and crashed down onto John once.

Unconsciousness was a blessing, after that.

Harold felt almost numb, with only his own sorrow to feel. Numb as he sat by John's bedside, sleeping restlessly when he could. Numb when he finally left to watch Joss's funeral from a distance, Sameen strong and silent at his side until she flickered away silently like a shadow.

It took every ounce of energy to convince himself to pick up the call from the Machine. The number it gave him was all too familiar. Bile rose in his throat. For the first time, he found himself legitimately questioning whether or not to take action.

Then, as he taped Simmons's photo up in the Library, he felt John wake up. The blast of his emotions coming back online made him stagger, groping for the chair. Pain, aching and overwhelming like Finch hadn't experienced himself since Nathan's death. White hot rage.

Then, in the space of a blink, all of it was funneled away into a deadly cold determination, and Harold realized that as bad as things were... they were about to get much, much worse.

John, of course, was long gone from the safe house by the time he got there, leaving only an empty hospital bed with blood stained linens. "I know he's in trouble," Root murmured as he set down her tea with trembling hands. "I can see it in you. Physically, Harold. Which means he's much, much worse. Please... let me help you."

Harold felt a spike of panic and fought to focus on keeping his expression even. "I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Groves."

"But _She_ does. It's the same reason you were so frightened when I threatened to hurt Grace. You'll have to forgive me if I sound unsympathetic, Harold... but we have much bigger problems at hand. Whatever your machine was trying to prepare me for... it's coming. And we can't afford to lose John _and_ you."

The thought that Root, of all people, might somehow know the one thing that could completely destroy him was completely terrifying. That his creation might have been the one to tell her wasn't any comfort - rather the opposite. It was too much to deal with. He turned and left, locking her away.

Even with Fusco and Sameen, all they came up with was dead ends. He couldn't find John by feel alone, not when they were so far apart. And underneath John's cold, determined rage, he could feel his energy fading. What precious time he had left was slipping away, and the harder and more desperately he tried to hold onto it the quicker it seemed to slip through his fingers.

"Harold. Listen to me. John will die." Sameen's fingers dug into his biceps, physically shaking him from the shock of his fear. Did she know too? He couldn't tell, couldn't read her even at his best. Her dark eyes were determined. "We need Root."

She's dangerous, he wanted to say. But she was right. They both were. No danger Root could possibly pose mattered. Not if he lost John.

When they finally found him, John's skin was gray. Blood from his obviously torn-open shoulder wound dripped down his arm, black in the dim light of room. "Mr. Reese - " Harold started, rushing to his side as he started to collapse, helping him down while completely cognizant of the gun still trained on Quinn. 

What scared him more was that John's rage and determination barely wavered, even as he fell. Even as Harold pled with him, giving every rational reason not to shoot. Evoking Joss's memory, her noble purpose. John just gripped the gun tighter, as if pouring his last bit of strength into keeping it upright.

"I should have killed him in the first place. Then Joss...."

"That's not our purpose," he begged. "We save lives. You save lives."

"Not all of them."

He wouldn't be able to get through to him, Harold realized. Not with reason, reason could never be enough to shake him from this rage. But there was still one hope left. Something he couldn't help but think, in that terrible clarity of the moment, that he should have told John long ago. 

He yanked at the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. "John. Listen to me. You're dying. You can't die. John, look." He grabbed the neckline of his undershirt and yanked his clothes to the side, praying that enough of his mark would be visible, that John could see it, recognize it in the dim light. "Please look. You can't die. Please, John. Please...."

John's eyes flicked to his chest, his eyebrows knitting together, and suddenly all Harold could feel was a rush of sorrow, overwhelming devastation. He heard himself give a soft sob, and John's gun clattered to the floor. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and his emotions faded as unconsciousness claimed him.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry short update, guys. I caught a post-holiday cold and my head is wrapped in meds. :( Will try to make up for it soon. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Harold stayed at John's bedside, half in fear that he'd leave again as soon as he woke. And as much as he dreaded what John would think when he woke, what he'd say, what he'd _feel_... he owed it to him to stay. To give him whatever answers he could.

He woke from a restless nap with back aching, lifting his head from where he'd pillowed his arms on the side of the bed. Then he became aware of a terrible weariness and heavy sense of betrayal, and he looked up to find John watching him quietly, his expression carefully blank despite what Harold knew he felt.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and watched John's eyes flick away.

"Simmons?"

"Fusco brought him in. They found him dead in his hospital bed the next day. No suspects."

John gave a slow nod, and Harold thought he felt the briefest flicker of satisfaction. Then he turned his gaze back to Harold, and the sudden rush of _hurt/disappointment/betrayal_ was so strong that for a moment he couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, wanting to beg John to _stop_ but helpless to know how to.

John's voice was a harsh rasp. "The marks. How long have you known?"

"Since the night the CIA tried to take you out. I wanted to respect your wishes, John, but you were dying, and I - "

John turned his head away, lips tightening. "... should have let me."

Harold closed his eyes, giving his head a shake. "I told you. I don't want to do this without you."

He heard John give a soft, mirthless laugh. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I don't know." It was a miserable answer, but the truth. "You'd made your feelings on the matter abundantly clear, John. It was my choice, I thought the gains far outweighed the risks. But I thought it unfair to involve you when I hadn't given you any say in the matter."

"You let me believe you were bonded to Grace."

Harold raised his gaze to find John looking at him again. "I am. And to you."

"How is that possible?"

He'd thought about it a lot - how could he not? Were they somehow special? Was there some kind of grand destiny that had brought them together to do the work that they did, saving people through The Machine? Or had their circumstances simply gave them an opportunity that most people never had to realize their marks? After all, what happily bonded couple would ever have cause to seek out a third person to match with? "I don't know."

For a long moment John said nothing, gaze focused away. But the feelings of hurt and betrayal didn't lessen. "You know... sometimes I wondered if you were a mind reader on top of everything else," he said finally, the hurt deepening. "I guess I wasn't far off."

"John...."

"You've been in my head for nearly two years, knowing how I felt. Knowing what to say to make me feel what you wanted me to. Even after all this time I'm still just a tool, aren't I?"

Harold's heart spasmed painfully at the thought. "No. God, no. Never, John. I promise you that."

"Then why can't you trust me?"

The angry growl of John's voice shook him. "John, I trust you with my life! I - "

"Don't! Don't. I... " John closed his eyes, giving his head a hard shake. "I can't handle this right now, Finch."

That hurt even more, enough that he couldn't reply. Couldn't think, even as John pushed his way out of bed. He moved stiffly, the ache of his injuries flaring as he crossed the apartment to pull on clothes from the backup stash they left there.

Panic flared when Harold realized he was heading for the door. "John!"

"What?"

There was so much he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Forgive me. I love you. "Where will you go?"

"Away. I don't know."

"John... please don't leave."

John gave a soft, harsh laugh, bitterness flooding back through the bond. "Don't worry. I won't get myself killed," he said, and the slam of the door echoed off the walls of the empty apartment.

It was such a final, terrible sound that for a long moment Harold couldn't move, staring at the spot where John had been.

 _You should have told him._ flicked the thought across his mind. _Just like you should have trusted Nathan._

_You can't protect the ones you love from anything. Not even from yourself. You couldn't save Joss. And John...._

_... John may never forgive you for this._

Three days of ignored numbers later, his phone rang, interrupting the numbness of loss.

Sameen. "Have you heard from Reese?"

For a moment Harold couldn't answer, a fresh surge of pain welling up at the reminder. He closed his eyes, forcing his lie out with a calm he didn't feel.

"As soon as he was strong enough to stand he left without a word."

~~~

 

He tried not to think about it as they worked, but it was always at the back of his mind. What if John tore open his wounds again, what if Fusco couldn't find him? What if he never came back, never forgave him, never....

It was a dangerous distraction, he knew that. Realized too late that he should have seen that Arthur's wife's identity had been altered. Should have realized the bank manager was a plant. Should have allowed Miss Groves to assist from the beginning. Being caught in the bank, being captured by Vigilance was sloppy and stupid and entirely his fault, and they were going to die because of it - him and fearless Miss Shaw and they'd surely kill dear Arthur when they were done taking him apart and - 

Then John had swooped in, guns blazing, like something out of a romance novel, and the bright rush of joy Harold felt had nothing to do with being saved and everything to do with _him_.

But just as effortlessly, John shattered his world again afterwards. 

"I'm not staying."

The world around him went cold. Of course John didn't feel _happy_ , but how could they, after all that had happened? Still, he hadn't thought....

He listened numbly as John's quiet, careful words echoed through his head. _I came back to protect you. You're important._ But what did that matter if he was leaving? The hurt and betrayal he'd felt from John before had softened substantially, but John's sorrow still ran deep, overlaid by a sense of determination both weary and resolute. 

Joss was dead. John blamed the machine. 

And clearly, whether he consciously realized it or not, John blamed him.

"I'll be safer with you here," he managed to say, and John let out a soft huff of breath, corners of his lips turning up in a small, mirthless smile.

He closed the space between them, reaching up to run the back of his fingers gently along Harold's jaw, knuckles bruised and scraped. He leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead, warm and lingering, and over top of his own heartbreak Harold felt an aching shudder of longing and bittersweet love. "John, please...."

John stepped back with a soft sigh. "I came back to say goodbye, Finch."

Finch? In a moment like this? Was that really all they were, now? "John, you can't go...."

"I can't stay here," he replied, and disappeared into the darkness.

He'd left Bear at John's apartment, where he'd been staying in the faint hope that John would return. When he stepped inside he stood defeated in the entryway without bothering to turn on the lights, staring out into the space. He couldn't stay there now, not with John's final words echoing through the space where they'd shared so many beautiful things. Their sanctuary away from the world.

Bear's wet nose and the warmth of his tongue against his hand roused him slightly, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. Leaving would take so much energy.

Instead he quietly laid down on top of the bed that they'd shared, setting his glasses on the other pillow but too weary to do anything else. His suit could rumple. It didn't matter. Nothing did.

He'd failed John. The world had provided him with the perfect partner, in every way, and he'd lied to him. Taken him for granted. And in consequence, he'd lost him.

~~~

 

The last thing he expected was being thrown back into another situation with John. With a _relevant_ number, none the less. He forced himself to compartmentalize his feelings because it was necessary to keep John safe, even when John spoke bitter, hurtful words about _secrets_ and his failure to control the machine he'd built. It hurt. But that was his penance, he could accept that. And so, when he finally heard the applause of the airline's passengers after he'd used every ounce of skill to land the plane safely - accompanied by John's warm, grateful praise with no hint of bitterness - the real joy of accomplishment was at the sudden realization that he hadn't thought of his own self-preservation once. His desire to save the flight had been, as it had in the beginning, simply about doing what was needed to save good people.

"You track me down, Harold?"

For a moment he didn't reply, looking across the table at John as he slid into the other seat. Savoring the sound of his given name on John's lips. Savoring the calm of John's emotions, which were, while certainly not happy, at least not the overwhelming hurt and angry betrayal of before. Then he set down his paper and stood, despite the fact that he'd already paid for what would undoubtedly be a very nice italian coffee. "Walk with me."

John fell into step with him without question, the same easy, comfortable gait that he'd always kept, allowing Harold's uneven motion to set their pace. He kept silent, and after a few moments to gather his thoughts Harold finally 

"Mr. Reese, I understand your frustration with the opacity of the machine," he said finally. "But there's a reason I chose to make it that way. The machine only gives us numbers, because I would always rather that a human element remain in determining something so critical as someone's fate. We have free will. And with that comes great responsibility and sometimes great loss. It's a responsibility I've been unforgivably careless with."

"Have you?" 

He felt a twist of hurt from John, but less of an accusation than he'd expected. It was enough of an encouragement to continue. He stopped, turning to look up at him. "I've always known that this work that we do would kill me someday. My mistake was never fully considering the possible consequences to the people that help me. It was wrong of me to demand that you stay after everything you've lost."

John glanced away from him at that, lips tightening, breathing out a soft sigh of sorrow. Harold couldn't help but step closer, reaching up to place a hand on his arm. "I know how you felt about her," he said softly. "I could feel it, John. And I miss her dearly too. Perhaps more than you would believe."

John nodded slowly, lips still pursed. Then his eyes moved back to his, voice low. "And what about the consequences of the secret you kept? Did you consider those?"

Harold closed his eyes for a moment at the feeling of disappointment, the sorrowful accucation. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Forced himself to speak, gaze focused carefully on John's chest. "Too many times, but perhaps still not enough. The truth of the matter is... I was afraid, John. I became addicted to the way you felt about me, and at the same time I felt spectacularly unworthy. I convinced myself that you wouldn't want to know because I couldn't bare the thought of your feelings changing." A soundless, mirthless laugh escaped his lips. "Ironic that my behavior has caused the very thing I was afraid of."

John's face softened. "Harold...."

"I won't ask you to come back," Harold said, trying to shut out the conflicting emotion from his mate for what needed to be said. "I know what I've done is unforgivable. But please know, I... no matter what happens, I..." he took a deep breath, steeling his feelings. "I love you, John. You will always have a place with me. No conditions, no questions asked, no resentment felt. I promise you that."

He felt a sudden rush of emotion from John, an aching, desperate yearning. Then John's lips were on his, hard and trembling, one hand tangled in Harold's hair. After holding almost no hope of reconciliation Harold found himself so overwhelmed that he could barely breathe, gasping a soft sob against his lips.

John's free arm slipped around his waist, drawing him closer, giving a low hum of dismay. "Shh..." His kiss softened, and as John's fingers stroked through his hair Harold felt his emotions soften as well. Protectiveness, warm and determined. And finally, love, soft and warm. The love he needed so desperately, and had been so afraid that he'd never feel again.

Finally John let his forehead rest against his, letting out a long breath, still holding him close. "Harold, I was thinking... while I'm in Italy...."

In Italy? Harold felt a sudden surge of worry. Was he not coming back? Had he mistaken - 

"I thought I'd get fitted for a new suit."

"...oh." A soft rush of breath escaped his lips in realization. In the feeling of commitment that came with them. "Of course. I... We should call my atelier in the Via Palestro, see if Gianni could fit you in after lunch. He's the best."

"Yeah?" John drew back a little, smiling, and the warmth in his grey eyes was so beautiful that Harold thought he might cry. "I thought maybe I could hitch a ride back with you. I'm not quite ready to fly commercial yet."

Harold nodded with a breathless laugh, heart aching, caught between joy and tears. "Certainly. I know the pilot, we can delay as long as you like."

"Good," John murmured, and kissed him again.

~~~

 

They left Gianni's late in the day with arrangements to send the finished garments back to New York, with a few new wardrobe items for Harold as well. Several suits more than John wanted, but he insisted. He felt too happy not to be generous, nearly giddy from relief and the soft feelings of love he could feel when John looked at him.

He hailed a cab, but before they could step in John pressed close, voice warm near his ear. "Let's not rush to the airport just yet. Let's enjoy the evening. Spend some time here. Maybe go for dinner."

Harold's heart fluttered in happiness at the suggestion. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

John smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and shook his head. "Take me someplace you like."

"All right." Harold slipped into the back of the cab, considering for a moment, then leaned forward. "Piazzale Giuseppe Garibaldi, per favore."

The monument on the top of Gianicolo Hill was a common attraction, but it offered the most spectacular view of Rome. They reached the top of the hill as the sun began to touch the horizon, sending its rays out to light Rome's white monuments in a brilliant gold. John gave a soft hum of appreciation as he stepped out of the cab, stepping close to rest a hand on the small of Harold's back. He looked out at the city as they made their way towards the balustrade. "... good choice."

"It seemed like a nice way to view the city." Harold leaned into him as they stopped, content with the warm strength of John's body against his.

For a long moment John was silent, looking out at the city. Thoughtful. "I'm sorry about the girl this morning," he said finally, quietly, and Harold felt a soft surge of guilt from him. "She..."

Harold turned quickly, shaking his head. "Don't be sorry about that. I've never desired anything from you that you didn't yourself wish to give me."

John's eyebrows knit together slightly. "Are you sure? Harold, if I've ever made you feel... less than wanted...."

He smiled, shaking his head again. "You haven't. I assure you. I'm intimately familiar with how much love you have to give, and I wouldn't dream of placing any kind of restriction on that. I suppose the outdated concept of monogamy continues to be useful to many, but if it was one that either you or I placed importance on I'm certain we would have had this conversation long before now."

John nodded slowly, but his gaze dropped, troubled. "Still can't help but feel like you deserve so much more than this."

Harold smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his mouth. "This is what I want, John."

He felt a warm wave of adoration as John returned the kiss, mirroring the gentle touch on his cheek. Then he placed his palm to Harold's shoulder, smoothing it down over his jacket to rest above his heart.

"I don't want to have any more regrets," he murmured, and let out a soft breath. "Not about you." Then, before Harold could think to question his sudden surge of determination, John's lips were against his ear, his voice soft and low. _"I accept you as my mate, my soul to yours."_

Whether the overwhelming rush of emotion he felt was his or John's, Harold couldn't say. Nothing existed but the feel of _them_ : a bright shudder of wonder as John pulled him tight against him, breath a shuddering gasp. An aching, yearning need to be close, to never let go. To love and be loved, and if Harold had thought himself addicted to John's love before it was nothing like what he felt now, a feeling of warmth and strength that filled him completely. Trust and adoration and complete, unwavering acceptance.

"God," John gasped, as overwhelmed as he. "Oh god, _Harold_...."

He pressed a trembling kiss to his mouth, quite certain that his heart was bursting, filled with too much love and joy to contain. "I love you, John," he managed to say, even though the words felt so inadequate compared to everything he could feel.

"I know." John's voice broke on the words, thick with emotion. "I know. I _know_. And I love you. Always, Harold."

~~~


	6. Chapter 6

Harold was still giddy when they finally returned to the air strip late in the evening, giddy with joy and the wine they'd had with dinner, though he couldn't have said it if was good or not. Much of the evening had been a blur: everything but the gaze of John's gray eyes, his smile. The feedback of love and joy that buzzed along his nerves, more intoxicating than any drug.

"Welcome back, Mr. Crane." The co-pilot inclined his head as they enter in respect and deference to a frequent customer's money. If he had any questions about John's presence, he didn't voice them, nodding to him as well. "Sir. The VIP sleeping cabin has been done up if either of you wish to make use of it on our trip home."

Harold glanced back at John, feeling a soft flood of desire from him at the suggestion of _bed_ even as the corners of John's mouth quirked up. "I suppose it is night time."

"And a long flight," he agreed casually, trying not to return the smirk and feeling John's interest strengthen anyway. He nodded to the pilot. "Thank you, Captain. We shan't require any assistance tonight and do not wish to be disturbed after take-off."

"Certainly, sir. We will engage the cabin's natural lighting a half hour before landing."

Somehow it seemed like the longest take-off Harold had ever experienced, his own arousal only heightened by the brief, dark glances John kept giving him, smoldering with desire. He was already half hard by the time they were in the back cabin with the door latched behind them, and he quickly found himself crowded up against it, John's mouth hot on his own. "God, Harold... how can you stand it? Feeling you...."

Harold was far more interested in kissing and _touching_ than talking, and couldn't bring himself to answer until John's mouth moved to devour his neck with kisses. "It is a rather powerful aphrodisiac," he breathed, gasping as John's teeth nipped at his throat, finally managing the knot on his tie and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. "Though it does seem quite a bit stronger now than it's ever been - oh...."

"Bed," John growled, and Harold was all too happy to let himself be pulled, bits of their clothes discarded on the floor without care until John was pressing him back into the crisp, high-count hotel sheets of the cabin's bed.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the strength of John's body against his until he was pinned under him on the bed. He let his hips roll up against him unrestrainedly, groaning at the slide of his cock against John's stomach, brushing against the length of his lover's erection. He repeated the motion, the echoing shiver of pleasure from John intoxicating, thinking of nothing more than wanting to be touched and ravished and overwhelmed with pleasure. 

Then John drew back, breathless, dropping his gaze as he ran his fingertips over the thin knit still covering his chest. He wet his lips, eyes flicking to Harold's. "... may I?"

The words nearly stuck in his throat. "Of course," he managed, sitting up enough to let John pull it off over his head, then his own. Harold had never been completely naked with him before, and while he felt a soft surge of shame it only had a little to do with self-consciousness. "I'm sorry I've never... you must have thought...."

"Shh...." John's kisses were soothing, reassuring as he pressed him back down into the pillows. "It doesn't matter now," he murmured, then drew back enough to look down at his skin, letting out a long breath before leaning in to press a soft, referent kiss to the lines of the mark. The touch of his lips sent a strange tingle of sensation through him that was, if unexpected certainly not unpleasant, and Harold sighed in pleasure, sliding his fingers into John's hair to encourage more.

"I'm so glad it was you," John murmured against his skin, one broad hand rubbing over his hip and up his side. "... you've given me so many new chances...."

"We both have," Harold found himself replying, smiling as John glanced up at him, then drawing him back into his kisses. He wrapped one thigh up around his hips, arching against him. "Make love to me, John. Please."

It was a good thing he'd managed to think long enough to stop off at a farmacia on their way back, because he was certain that nothing else could satisfy in that moment, not after all the uncertainty of the week. Certainly not with everything he could feel from John, his love and yearning and almost desperate want strengthening at Harold's words. He wanted nothing more than to let go to the haze of quickly building pleasure, gasping at the slick press of John's fingers as he worked him open with practiced care and a patience that he certainly didn't feel.

He groped for a condom on the bed, fumbling it open, stroking it down the shaft of John's cock. "John, please... I need you...."

John gave a soft, huffed laugh against his lips, then kissed him again, emotions trembling, almost overwhelmed. "You have more of me than I've ever given anyone," he murmured, then grabbed for a pillow to tuck under his hips, pressing close and finally, finally rocking home.

For a moment Harold couldn't think, couldn't do anything but pull him closer, gasping against his mouth. The longed-for rush of penetration was exquisite, pleasure shuddering through him as he stretched around the girth of John's cock, and John gave a choked, incredulous sound against his lips, bucking deeper into him, dropping his lips to Harold's throat as he began to move in slow, even thrusts. "God, Harold...."

I know, he wanted to say, but all he could do was hold on against the rush of feedback from John - pleasure, incredulous wonder, a trembling passion hotter than he'd ever thought possible. In a more sober moment he'd stop to wonder himself at how, for the first time since he'd known him, John seemed at a loss and without an ounce of that carefully cultivated control. Perhaps he'd even feel smug. But there was no space left in him to feel sober or smug, not while feeling completely overwhelmed himself. Nothing was important but this, being close, closer, reaching desperately for the perfect union his soul ached for. "John. Oh - !"

He cried out as John drove harder into him, rolling his hips up against his sweet spot, and heard his lover echo it, repeating the motion again desperately.

"God," John gasped again, and pushed himself up enough to look down at him, flushed and breathless. Wondering. "God, you feel...."

Harold heard himself laugh softly, joyfully, reaching up to wind his arms around John's neck and drawing him close. Drawing him into exceedingly more breathless kisses as they moved together until all he could do was hold him, sharing gasped breaths of air, each rock of their bodies a crescendo of sensation. The overwhelming exquisiteness of pleasure shared was perfect, as perfect as the aching warmth of their emotions, and when that pleasure finally crested Harold could hardly tell where John ended and he began, everything falling away around them except the bright-hot ecstasy of their union.

"I'm so sorry I waited." John's words were a caress against his skin in the wake of soft kisses, mapping his face, warm and adoring.

We have plenty of time, he wanted to say, but was acutely aware at the same time that he had no way of knowing if that were true. He stroked his fingers through John's short-cropped hair. "I regret it too."

"We'll make the most of it," John murmured, lips finding his again, warm and sweet.

"For as long as we can," Harold agreed, smiling against his mouth and letting himself relax back more into the bed.

"Mmm." John smiled, and drew back to look down on him with aching fondness. Then he reached up to tug Harold's impossibly smudged glasses from his face, setting them carefully aside. "I'm definitely going to make the most of this plane ride."

"You know, Mr. Reese, I think that's a grand idea."

~~~

Being with John and having their bond fully realized was easy, he reflected. Far more comfortable than he could have ever anticipated. Like reading a good book in a comfortable bay window in the sunshine, and at the same time the sexiest thing he could ever remember experiencing. The only thing that was strange was that when he finally started to pick his suit up off the floor he found it much easier than he should - especially after a night in a strange bed and especially after everything they'd done. He pondered it for a few moments before turning to John. "Do you feel... different?"

John raised an eyebrow, his smile playful. "I feel you. I'd say that's different."

"Well yes, but I mean... pain."

"No more than yesterday morning." He stood to meet him, sliding an arm around his waist and pulling him into the decadence of his bare form. "Do you?"

Harold closed his eyes and lowered his head to nuzzle his mark. "Truthfully, I feel far better than I ought to. Better than I have in a very long time. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't transferring any of that...."

"No." John's lips pressed warmly to his temple, fingers stroking through the back of his hair. "I feel so good, being with you."

~~~

It was nearly 5am, New York time, when they finally got back to John's apartment. Harold wasn't all that surprised when his phone rang as John was locking the door of his apartment behind them.

"Good morning Miss Shaw."

"Finch. We have work yet?"

"Not yet. But I have good news. Mr. Reese will be returning to work in a few days time."

"How nice of the Machine to hold off until he returns." Shaw's dry reply sounded slightly disgruntled, which for her was very much so. "Call me when we have a number. I'm keeping the dog until then." Then, before Harold could reply, she clicked off.

He felt a wave of amusement from John and looked up to find him smiling. "A few days, Harold?"

He smiled, curling into him and nuzzling his jaw. "Can you concentrate on work right now? I certainly can't."

John gave a soft hum, sliding his hands around his waist. "That sounds like a very prudent judgement for your machine to make."

"It will call if it needs us," Harold murmured, and arched up to press a warm, yearning kiss to his mate's lips.

~~~ Finish ~~~

 

**Epilogue**

_February 14th, 2017_

 

There are days in the life of Grace Hendricks (or, as it now reads on her fake papers, Ellsworth, and wasn't that a pain to have to remember to sign) that are easier than others. Days when her new life as _curator_ instead of _illustrator_ are so delightfully busy and engaging that she hardly thinks about the life she's left behind. There are days that, even when she's reminded of Harold, she's able to remember him with thoughts that are more happy than sad. They'd had a wonderful time together. Far better to remember that with happiness than throw it away in bitterness at what she's lost.

Eventually that will be all there is. Fond memories that are only a little bittersweet. That's what everyone tells her. But she's certainly not there yet. Not when she's spent the past two months carefully designing and setting up this new exhibit specifically for February, pulling dozens of paintings and illustrations and sculptures from the museum's stacks to fit the theme of love.

Art is important because of the way it makes us feel, she thinks as she stares up at the huge canvas at the entrance of the gallery, and she recalls in tandem her greatest moments of sorrow and pain so strongly that for a moment she can't move.

_Harold's face, sweet and eager, his words soft and adoring as he opens the book to reveal its secret. To ask her to spend her life with him. Then, the same book in the wreckage of the ferry bombing. A promise of forever that had lasted a scant few weeks._

Grace closes her eyes and lets the emotion burn, bright and intense. Revels in it. Because as long as she can still _feel_ , part of Harold is still with her.

Then she counts to five, opens her eyes, and returns to her office to go home for the day.

February is always one of the harder times, when so many around her are hand in hand with those that they love. Sometimes well-meaning co-workers will try and encourage her to date or try and set her up with friends, and it's not like she's made some promise that she'll never love again. It's just that she can count on one hand the number of people she's known in her life that she's wanted to be that close to, and the chances of finding one of those rare people _and_ falling in love with them seem so slim that she isn't sure that she wants to try.

Locking the door of her flat behind her, she makes herself a cup of tea and turns on the desk light in the main room, which acts as her home office. Then she sits down and boots up her laptop to work.

When the printer behind her whirs to life, she starts, sloshes tea over the top of the mug.

She hisses at the heat of the liquid, grabbing a towel and dabbing up the splashes on her laptop, which thankfully haven't gotten as far as the keys. Finally she turns to the printer, expecting to see that she'd somehow triggered a test sheet.

What she finds is a photo of Harold, grainy, the colour washed out. A still from a surveillance camera. She drops the sheet back down on the printer in a rush of emotion, logic overtaken by the shock of seeing his face. Then reason kicks back in and she picks up the paper again.

How did a photo of Harold that she's never seen before end up on her printer? And when was this taken? He looks well. He's wearing a suit that she doesn't recognize. The glasses, too, are new. Then she glances down at the tray of drinks in his hands, and the pieces come together.

Starbucks logo. Red. Those holiday cups that everyone made such a big fuss about last year.

2015.

But how was that possible?

The printer whirs to life again, and she ought to feel more concerned about that considering the last time someone asked her about Harold. And just like that, she finds herself staring at the man who'd saved her from that, given her papers and sent her to Italy. Detective Not-Simmons. Another surveillance photo. He's sitting at a desk in the precinct he'd taken her to, and she can just make out the nameplate on the desk. Riley.

She considers the photos for a long moment, chewing her bottom lip. She'd liked Not-Simmons. He'd had a kind of quietness to him, a gentleness that had made her trust him even in the storm of everything that had happened. In the aftermath of the kidnapping she'd often thought back on him. Wondered why she'd been taken and why those men had been so invested in getting information about a man who had been dead for years.

Not-Simmons was her only tie back to it. And now it seemed as though someone wanted her to find him.

It might be dangerous, she thinks, and her mind recalls the fear she'd felt, certain she was going to end up dead. It's been what's kept her from going home. But it's been over two years now. Surely....

Surely it's time to go home. 

It's time to get answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end - for now! Sorry I didn't get farther with Grace... I have a lot of feels about her and I need to mull things over before I can try and do her awesomeness justice, but I wanted to give a taste of where I think things should go. ;)


End file.
